


Grapefruit

by RobotMeatball



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M, Mentioned Noncon, Mpreg, Past Abuse, References to Infertility, Underage Pregnancy, jeanmarco brotp, very very light a/b/o references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 11:32:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8160667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobotMeatball/pseuds/RobotMeatball
Summary: Jean is sixteen and pregnant, which, whatever, is totally cool and uncomplicated--until he meets Eren, the younger brother of one of his future child's adoptive parents.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tiggeryumyum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiggeryumyum/gifts).



> This is part one of two of a birthday fic for the incredible Tiggeryumyum, who has blessed me with her friendship, advice, and writing for so many years. Here's to many more!! I love you so much!!

Kirschtein Komedy, everyone calls it. It's, like—sad-hilarious. There'd be a laughtrack to it that hangs on just a beat too long. Take last month, for example: his father, assuming that Connie Springer was the father, had thrown him straight through a plate-glass window. First-story, no biggie; Connie's gotten into worse scraps with paperclips, but it's the same brand of Ridiculous that has epitomized Jean's life ever since he got caught with his Phoenix action figure and was dubbed Jean Gay ("Gene," of course) all the way through fifth grade. Kirschtein Komedy. It means that he's fucked, and someone's always gonna be there to find it funny.

Today that someone is Connie, who is laughing his ass off at the Brauns' hand-painted mailbox. "Oh my god," he says, nearly sobbing. "It's mounted on a fucking rose trellis! I've never seen something so tryhard idle-lick in my life!"

"What's wrong with idyllic?" Marco asks, indignant. He'd picked out the Brauns himself.

"Nothing, if you like Thomas Newman calendars and boxed wine."

"Maybe Jean _wants_ his baby to grow up in a happy household."

"Yeah, Jean? You want a little yuppie-ass baby that wears Armani diapers?"

"I couldn't give a good goddamn what it wears," says Jean flatly, and that sobers everyone like a bucket of cold Pabst to the face. Before either of them can apologize, Jean steps out onto the neatly-paved sidewalk to study the white brick colonial with the pretentious mailbox. It's got a wide porch and an immaculate lawn, French windows, extravagant lace valances visible even from the outside. Hand braced on the small of his back, he walks up the driveway and rings the bell, wholly unsurprised when it emits the most archetypal ding-dong in the universe. There's no scuttle of dogs or cats on the hardwood flooring before someone opens the door.

It's a huge blond man. Like, the beefiest motherfucker Jean has ever seen, kale smoothies and fancy gym membership and sports cars and shit. The man grins, reaching out to seize one of Jean's hands in both of his and pump so hard he nearly takes Jean's arm off.

"Mr. Kirschtein, it's a pleasure," he says. "I'm Reiner Braun."

"'Sup," says Jean, unimpressed. He angles a thumb over his shoulder without turning around. "That's Connie in the hockey jersey, and the other guy is Marco, who you spoke to on the phone. They allowed in?"

"Of course!" says Reiner, opening the door so wide that it smacks the wall. "Come in. Nice to meet you all."

 _He's nervous_ , Jean realizes suddenly. _This gigantic sonuvabitch is actually scared of me._ And that—that makes this whole situation a little more okay. Jean lets a small, smug smile curl his lips as he steps into the Brauns' beautiful home, letting the screen door fall shut and smack Connie in the face on his way in.

Inside, a tall man is wringing his hands in the kitchen entryway, sweat visible in the armpits of his six-hundred dollar sweater. "Do they want anything to drink?" he whispers.

"Do you want anything to drink?" Reiner asks. "Perrier, Arnold Palmer, tea?"

"Tea was the only thing I recognized there," says Connie.

"Tea," Reiner whispers back to Bert. His ears redden as he realizes what he's just done. He clears his throat and sweeps an arm out to indicate the living room. "Have a seat if you'd like."

Jean takes a seat on the sofa, ignoring the overstuffed armchair in the center of the room that is obviously meant for him. Connie and Marco sit on either side of him, forcing Reiner to take the armchair, which confuses his taller husband when he arrives with the beverages. "Oh, um," he says, very quietly. He passes out teacups, then gingerly sits down on the tiny ottoman. Connie snorts with laughter, but Marco and Jean manage to keep straight faces. "I'm Bertolt Braun," the man says. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Quite," says Connie, discreetly raising his pinkie as he sips from his teacup. This time Jean does laugh, though he tries to pass it off as a cough.

"You have a lovely home," says Marco, his voice polite, but with a warning note.

"Thanks," says Reiner. "We like it here, but it gets a little lonely—too much empty space and all." Braggart. "Bert's brother lives in one of the guest bedrooms. Sorry he couldn't be here. He just left for a movie."

"It's fine," says Jean. This is just a getting-to-know-you meeting anyway; Hanji, his attorney, is at a dentist appointment or something. They'll get all the nasty legal details out of the way later.

Long, awkward pause.

"So," says Marco. "How long have you two been together?"

"Couple weeks," says Reiner, then sighs. "No, that was a joke. A shitty one. Since we were eighteen, just out of high school."

"How many decades ago was that?" asks Jean.

Reiner gives him an amused, unoffended look. "One. How old are you, Jean?"

"Sixteen and a half, to the day." It's October seventh.

"And when are you due?"

Jean shrugs and looks at Marco, whose smile grows a little strained, as if he expects Jean to know the answer himself. "He's eighteen weeks along," says Marco.

"At eighteen weeks, babies can suck their thumbs and make different expressions," says Bert in his low, soft voice. He has nervous, olive-colored eyes.

"You mean my baby could already have resting bitchface?" asks Jean.

"Bitchface…?" asks Bert.

"Never mind," says Jean. Marco is glaring at him. "Yeah, February, March-ish. Pisces baby, probably."

"Are you interested in astrology?" asks Reiner.

"Not really."

"What are you into?"

Jean pauses. What _is_ he into? It's been so long since he had the chance to explore his interests beyond researching adoption agencies and hiding pregnancy tests in the kitchen garbage. "I like—video games, I guess. RPGs and stuff. Chilling with my friends. I played tennis before I got knocked-up; now it's just ping-pong in Connie's basement because everyone at school treats me like trash. I'm a bad influence and all. Watch out for those godless teenage fornicators." He flashes an upside-down peace sign.

"I was once a godless teenage fornicator," Reiner says wistfully. He elbows Bert, nearly knocking him off the ottoman. "Wasn't I, Bert?"

Bert turns pink, and Jean grins a little. He went into this expecting to hate these fancy-mailbox guys, but Reiner and Bert seem all right, if pretentiously moneyed. He wonders what their deal is, their tragic backstory, but he's not quite ready to quid pro quo that shit yet.

"So I know Hanji isn't here yet, so we can't discuss anything official," says Reiner, his voice becoming serious, "but I wanted to thank you for coming to meet us. It was important to me and Bert to see you. We'd be happy to give you a tour of our home, and we are, of course, willing to pay all expenses, medical and otherwise—"

"'Otherwise?'" asks Marco, eyes narrowed.

"Yeah, dudes, that sounds super sketch," says Connie.

Reiner blinks. "No, no! I meant like late night Taco Bell runs and imported caviar cravings and stuff, housing—" he pauses. "Are you living with your parents now?"

"Nah, dad kicked me out," says Jean. "I'm rooming with Connie."

Reiner's brow creases with concern.

"No, don't worry, my parents'll still sign off on all the documents and stuff. Dad just wants this thing out of me and away from him."

"That's not what upsets me," says Reiner uncomfortably. "I don't know if this is—appropriate—but we have extra bedrooms and—"

"Yeah, fuck no, I—" Jean begins, but is promptly cut off when the front door bangs open.

A whirlwind of floral print and boy-smell surges by as quick, clumpy footsteps patter down the hall, only skidding to a halt when Bert, mortified, yells, "Eren!"

The footsteps start again guiltily, slowly, moving back up the hall. "Sorry," says 'Eren,' voice growing louder as he closes in on the living room. "I forgot my phone." An instant later, he appears in the threshold—and Jean's breath catches painfully in his throat.

Eren is about his height, gorgeously tan and gleaming with health. His eyes are green as fuck; they're the exact shade of the leaves on his floral snapback and his matching cargos. Jean should hate this fucking poser. He really should. But there's something stunning in his smile, vivid and passionate and almost frenetic, and when he crosses the living room and leans over to shake Jean's hand, the neckline of his white cotton tank top dips open and reveals a ridiculously toned plane of chest. He's got a tattoo of a key on his sternum.

"Hi, you must be Jean," he says, his teeth dazzlingly white. "I'm Eren, Bert's little brother. These guys scare you off yet?"

"Eren, please," Bert whines, which humanizes him about a thousand times more than his freshly-vacuumed house with its immaculate little tea service, and Jean realizes suddenly that this whole thing is an _effort_. Reiner and Bert don't just wake up in ironed shirts and ecru slacks. They don't normally have Arnold Palmers or their shoes in a neat row on their doormat, the good china out, tabletops scrubbed free of all fingerprints. 

After all, they live with a kid like _Eren_.

"Hi," says Jean faintly. He smiles at Reiner, ignoring Marco's look of horror: "So. When can I move in?"

*

There are two guest bedrooms. One of them is decorated with loud, bluebell-patterned wallpaper, violet accent lamps, and decorative plates bearing scenes from fairytales. Jean hates it, and his face must show it, because Reiner immediately closes the door again and leads him further down the hallway. "This one'll be better for you," he says, and opens the next door to a purposely neutral room: bedcovers and walls done in creamy beiges, no trim, empty closet and dresser. The only splotch of strong color—a small rug beneath an overstuffed off-white armchair—is a deep goldenrod that Jean likes. Jean nods and awkwardly lets his backpack drop to the carpet. He'd packed everything he managed to grab from home, which amounts to four changes of clothing, some socks, his toothbrush, and his laptop.

It's been weeks, but Jean still shakes with the memory of running to his bedroom and flinging things out of his drawers, racing against the sound of his father's footsteps pounding up the spiral staircase after him. He hasn't even been able to take his car keys. He walked the fourteen miles to Connie's house without texting anyone for a ride. _I have another human being inside me,_ he remembers thinking. _I have a human being inside me, and I've never been so alone_.

This is already better. Reiner and Bert seem to conduct their private lives pretty quietly themselves, but their mere presence is comforting, surprisingly down-to-earth given the extravagance of their home. They're making dinner for Jean. Spinach salad and crème fraîche potatoes and some sort of weird casserole to build up the baby. Jean's a picky eater, but it's hard to refuse a free meal after fifteen days of eating fast food and Pop Tarts and Connie Specialty Sandwiches (oat bread, potato chips, uncooked ramen, and ketchup). The Brauns aren't even forcing Jean to eat with them. "There'll be a plate for you in the fridge for when you're finished unpacking," says Reiner.

"Um, thanks," says Jean.

"You too," says Reiner, leaning awkwardly against the doorjamb. They're both avoiding the real sources of their gratitude. Fine by Jean, and Reiner, apparently, because he smiles a calm, uncomplicated smile, as if he's not housing the underage parent of the child that he is physically unable to father. "Bathroom's at the end of the hall, use whatever toiletries you want. Call if you need anything."

"Okay."

"Bye."

"Peace."

It takes Jean all of four minutes to unpack. He sits on the yellow rug for a long while, thinking quiet, tense thoughts, then shakes himself, boots up his laptop, and goes to Facebook. The only update of note is Connie's new status— _tfw your bro makes life desicions based soley on a PAIR OF PRETTY GREEN EYES_ —and Marco's sad face reaction. Jean rolls his eyes and likes it. He starts drafting a status of his own and gets as far as _new lease on life sans rent, starring Mr. Beefcake and Mr. Shrinking Viol—_ before there's a knock at the door.

Jean turns, angling his laptop away. "Hey," he says faintly.

"Hey," says Eren, grinning.

He's standing in the doorway, having clearly just returned home from some sort of outdoor engagement: his cheeks are bright with October color, he smells like a bonfire, and he's got a gray sweater on that is surprisingly nondescript given the rest of his wardrobe. Like, even his shoelaces are patterned. Jean stares at them as Eren leans against the doorjamb a thousand times more comfortably than Reiner had before him.

"Hi again," says Eren. "Sorry I was running out the door before. Jean, right? How are you settling in?"

"It's fine," says Jean blandly. "Everything's fine."

"Can I come in?"

"Dude, it's your house."

"It's my brother's house." Eren takes a wide vault over Jean and lands on the bed, bouncing it up and down, and scurries around so he's facing Jean. "So you're giving Bertl a baby," says Eren, flopping around in the covers.

"That's the plan," says Jean. He plucks one of his wrinkled shirts out the drawer, shakes it, and replaces it, just to have something to do with his hands. It's tricky to be in this room, spacious as it is, with all of this _Eren_ : the smell of him, burning and musky; his smile; his muscled arms and the smooth, curvy lines of his calves.

"How many months along are you?" asks Eren, eying his stomach.

Jean flushes under the scrutiny. "I think you're supposed to go by weeks, but, like, four?"

"Well, you're fucking huge, man. Like seriously. I can't believe you've still got another half of baby to fit in there." Eren squirms around on the bed again, ending up on his back, peering at Jean upside-down. "You're doing them a solid, Jean. They've been trying to get pregnant for years."

"Yeah, why hasn't that happened for them?" asks Jean, immediately latching onto the idea of getting the gritty details without having to share his own.

"Well, Reiner's got a naturally low sperm count and physically can't carry, and Bert, he—" Eren hesitated. "He got in an altercation with our foster father when he was thirteenish. I don't remember it, I was like two, but he ended up in the hospital and everything. We think that that's probably what messed it up for him."

Jean nods wordlessly, his hands stilling on the seams of one of his t-shirts. So it was as he expected: Bert certainly hadn't come from money, and if Reiner's easy, informal deportment is any indication, neither did he. That means that they're nothing like his dad in the ways that matter to Jean. He takes a closer look around the room and decides that the furniture could be Ikea—tasteful Ikea, but Ikea all the same—and that the nice yellow rug definitely belonged to someone else before it belonged to them. There are faint treads in the fibers, like it once hosted a rocker or something. That makes Jean smile a little. He imagines himself holding a swaddled baby, rocking it back and forth to sleep, maybe a splash of sunshine spilling through that dusty window and catching the child's soft, golden curls—

He slaps his laptop shut without posting the status and pushes it away, scooting up to lean against the side of the bed. Eren rolls back over without saying anything, resting on his elbows. After a long moment, he reaches out and lightly pinches Jean's ear, right above the cartilage piercing.

"Ow," says Jean, slapping him away. "What the fuck. Don't."

"I just wanted to say," Eren says, without addressing the ear-pinch at all, "that I got your back, man. If there's anything you need, just let me know."

When Eren says it, it sounds somehow different. There was a measure of duty in Reiner's vow, and that didn't bother Jean, but the paternal concern in it, the sympathy—that's not something Jean really wants or needs right now. Eren, at least, doesn't sound sentimental. It's just like he's offering a lab partner his notes, something casual and expected; something that can be refused without offense.

"Thanks," Jean says finally. He moves to cup his stomach, then fists his hands and lets them drop to his sides instead. "I don't think I'll need you, but that's cool of you."

"No prob," says Eren. He pinches Jean's ear again.

Jean snaps. "Why the fuck do you keep doing that!"

"My mom used to do that to me when she knew I was lying to myself about something," says Eren.

"I'm not lying about—"

But Eren is already scrambling upright. He skips out of the room with just one flash of that radiant smile, trailing behind him the scent of embers and woods, and Jean stares after him, his whole body aflame, one hand still cupped to his reddening ear.

*

Jean hasn't met many pregnancy coaches, but he's three thousand percent sure that Levi Ackerman is the most ill-suited one in the entire universe. "Are you swelling, or are those your actual feet?" Levi says in greeting, then bumps the door open with his shoulder and disappears back into the house without waiting for Jean.

Levi runs his practice out of his own residence, which is gorgeously minimalistic, even though Jean isn't normally into this sort of design: pristine leather sofas, tables with beveled edges, single white flowers in organic-shaped vases on shiny end tables. Jean stumbles in his haste to kick off his shoes (yes, his feet are swollen, thank you very much) and follows Levi into the kitchen. Levi opens the fridge. He's wearing a button-up shirt with the sleeves folded neatly to the elbows; he looks effortlessly cool. "You want anything?" he asks. "Tea? Perrier?"

"The fuck is Perrier? I keep hearing that."

"It's the bubbly water I buy to impress snots like you," says Levi, but he pauses to peer at Jean over the refrigerator's stainless steel door. "You're not exactly what I thought you'd be, admittedly. Are those, gasp, secondhand jeans?"

"You try keeping up with designer trends when you outgrow them every three days," Jean bitches.

"What, Valentino doesn't put out a maternity line?" asks Levi, with just a hint of a smirk.

"Ha ha. Do you have any real-person water?"

"Yeah," says Levi, snagging a glass from the bottom shelf of his cherry wood cabinets and pouring from a chilled pitcher. "Sit down. I think I can handle this myself."

Jean waddles into the living room and sits down on one of the leather couches, surprised when it squeaks incriminatingly beneath him, as if rarely used. He has to shift around a lot to get comfortable. As a second thought, he grabs a throw pillow and jams it behind his back. If he can't stop being proud around his pregnancy coach, he's gonna have to wear a brave face right up until his water breaks. He shudders a little imagining the horrified look on Levi's face if he propped his feet up on his beautiful glass-top coffee table.

A few minutes pass before Levi returns with the water and a plate of cookies, which Jean digs into gratefully. Levi is a tiny, neat man, his clothes crisp but unpretentious, and the reading glasses he slips out of his front pocket are fetchingly cheap and oversized. He pulls Jean's file out of a tidy case by his feet. Even from his place across the room, Jean can see that the folder is nearly empty.

"Hanji hasn't gotten back to me with your information," says Levi. "Have you met with them at all?"

"Yeah. A few weeks ago, we negotiated an open adoption with the Brauns."

Levi clicks open a pen and writes. "How do you like the Brauns?"

"They're nice," says Jean. "They're letting me stay with them and neither of them have put the moves on me or anything. They're kind of fucked up in a way I can't put my finger on."

"Like evil fucked up, or traumatized fucked up?"

"Traumatized. You know, like everyone is."

"Yeah," says Levi. He's looking at Jean with a little more interest now, his gaze more personal than professional. "So is this your first?"

"Um, yes? How old do I look to you?" asks Jean.

Levi studies him. "Fifteen or sixteen, maybe, but I had my second when I was twelve."

The climate of their meeting changes instantly. "I'm—sorry," says Jean, stunned.

"I'm not," says Levi, shrugging. His eyes are sharp and knowing. "My girl is the best thing that ever happened to me. She's about your age now. But the circumstances sucked, and I'm willing to bet yours do, too."

"My uncle," says Jean, throat tightening. It's the first time he's admitted it aloud.

Levi nods shortly. "Same. Uncles fucking suck."

"They really do."

The two of them share a long, careful glance. Jean starts laughing totally unexpectedly--Kirschtein Komedy--and that's when Levi grins back at him, teeth and all. He has a startlingly warm smile. He settles back into the armchair and rests his chin in one hand, watching Jean with absolutely no judgment. "So you know I'm Levi Ackerman. I'm a licensed RN and a certified nurse midwife, and it's my job to be here for you during every step of your pregnancy, as ugly as it gets. So who the hell are you? What's it like being Jean Kirschtein?"

"It's—not great," Jean admits, feeling abruptly queasy. He starts to pick at a seam on the couch, then rethinks it and folds his hands in his lap instead. "I don't care much about myself right now, I'm just—worried. Worried about the little bean-sized thing inside me. Well—no, it'd be about grapefruit sized now, right? I hate grapefruit."

"Interesting."

"Almost, yeah."

"I meant the way you're referring to 'it,'" says Levi. "The way you're trying to avoid humanizing your grapefruit."

"I'm not _dehumanizing_ my baby, Jesus," snaps Jean. "I'm just trying not to get attached."

"Yet you want an open adoption."

"Well, yeah. I'm mad. I'm _mad_ I'm pregnant." It feels great to admit, cool and delicious, like a sip of fresh water. "That doesn't mean I want to pretend this never happened. There's no way I could, even if I wanted to. My wide-ass hips aren't going to let me."

"And how does that make you feel?" asks Levi, like a fucking shrink.

"Ample," Jean replies, purposely misunderstanding the question. His eyes sting. He crosses his arms. "Aren't you supposed to be teaching me something a little more technical?"

"Yeah," says Levi after a long pause. He flips open a different notebook. "Yeah, let's get to that."

So they talk about pregnancy. They talk about placentas and neonatal vitamins and morning exercises, cravings and caesareans and swelling of the extremities. Jean never knew that having babies was so complicated. He'd figured that pregnant people just squeezed 'em out and that was that. It's biological in the most innate way ever. But the more Levi explains, the more the unnaturalness of Jean's situation hits him: he's not _supposed_ to be pregnant right now. He's sixteen years old; his body wasn't ready for this, and everyone around it knew it but him.

When Levi begins to discuss the possibility of premature labor, Jean starts crying.

"And there it is," says Levi. He's already there with the glass of water and an actual handkerchief, and when he dabs at Jean's cheeks with it, Jean smells lavender. "It's going to be okay, kid. It's not right that you're in this situation, but you're going to get through it."

"How the fuck do you know that?" Jean sobs. "I'm tired all the time. I'm tired and _scared_ and my body is the fucking crime scene; I can't escape it—I'm stuck and heavy and my dad won't even—"

"Fuck him," says Levi simply.

Jean gapes at him, tears still flooding his eyes. "You can't just _say_ that to someone."

"I think I just did. Look, he'll come around or he won't, but in the meantime, you've got your friends and Hanji and the Brauns—they're good people, Jean. Your buddy Marco wouldn't have okayed them if they weren't. And, like it or not, you've got me, too, and I'm going to do everything in my power to be there for you."

Levi hands him a card. It says _Levi Ackerman, Pirate Hooker_ , and Jean smiles despite everything. His number is handwritten in small, compact print.

"Call me any time, for any reason," says Levi. He smiles too, soft and understanding and beautiful. His hand is warm around Jean's. "I happen to love grapefruit."

*

"This is Levi." 

"Levi, help. Wait, preemptively: shut the fuck up. And now, help; I can't stop farting." 

"That's normal. Indigestion and acid reflux and morning sickness and all that jazz. If someone gets on your case for farting when you are literally housing another human being, punch them in the face and tell them to fuck off." 

"You're always so helpful. So helpful. It doesn't matter who I'm punching, Levi; I'm still farting." 

"I understand. Have you considered a stronger cologne?" 

* 

Thai Titan does one free order of Drunken Noodles for every homerun completed by the Sina Scouts, and the Scouts have managed two in their postseason, so Jean drags Marco and Connie there and proceeds to eat all six bowls while the restaurant staff watches on in horror. "Ohh my god," Jean moans around a half-masticated scoop of sugar peas and egg. "This is the second best thing I've ever put in my mouth."

No one asks about the first thing. Marco laughs, his hand rested protectively on the nape of Jean's neck, and Connie "Spring Roll" orders more spring rolls, because cannibalism. "It's aggressively mediocre Thai," he says, mouth full too. "I fucking love it."

"I'm gonna get coconut ice cream for dessert," says Jean. "Everyone order some, okay? I'll finish what you don't want to eat."

"You'll finish what we _do_ want to eat," Marco points out.

"Problem, Bodt?"

"Just saying," says Marco fondly.

Jean has long since stopped feeling self-conscious about what he eats. He's twenty-nine weeks along, and preternaturally enormous, according to Levi. It's no longer possible to pass off his stomach as fat. He gets some curious and pitying looks from strangers, but no one has been outright rude to him, especially since Marco started letting him wear his signet ring like a wedding band. It's a handsome thing, gold-plated with a small constellation of white topaz stars. Jean feels a little married to Marco in public, and that's as comforting as it is softly painful: Marco is not interested, and while Jean has come to terms with that, he still feels a soft twinge whenever the sun is just right in his hair or he smiles the smile he reserves for Jean, patient and loving and unashamed. Marco knows—it'd be impossible not to—and is appropriately sensitive. He pushes his unfinished pad ginger toward Jean—true love—before he goes to pay. Jean digs in, grateful.

"Hey, look who it is! Jean!"

He looks up sharply, carrot sauce dribbling attractively down his chin—and flushes deeply. It's Eren, dressed in a lilac-print overcoat and a green _I Beat Anorexia_ shirt, clutching a brown-bagged takeout order that smells heavenly. There's a beautiful blond boy trailing behind him, his wide, blue eyes full of interest.

"Um, hi," Jean says. "I thought you were still sleeping, or else I would've invited you."

"Same, man. You looked pretty wiped last night."

"I was, but food takes priority over sleep. Over pretty much anything these days." Jean is suddenly hyperaware of the army of dishes around him. He subtly pushes them closer to Connie, who pouts. "Connie, this is Eren. He's Bert's younger brother."

"I remember. Nice to seeya again," says Connie, loosely shaking Eren's hand, then the blond's.

"I'm Armin," says the blond, when Eren, still beaming at Jean, misses his cue to introduce him.

"Hi, Armin," Jean says. He tries to subtly eye Eren's takeout bag, but Eren notices anyway.

"I hope you're still hungry, because I got you a shit ton of panang curry," says Eren, hefting it onto the tabletop.

Jean groans happily.

That's about the time Marco returns from the front counter, tucking his copy of the receipt into his wallet. He blinks, then breaks into a sunny grin. "Armin!"

Armin turns, surprised. "Marco, hey! Small world!"

"Armin and I take postmodernism together," Marco explains. He gives Armin an awkward little hand greeting that Armin returns just as ineptly, the two of them totally oblivious to their whiteness. "Hey, how are you liking Kipps? Enjoying the names? Pornick, Mr. Coote—"

"Kippses," says Armin in a pretty great Gollum impression, and they dissolve into laughter together.

Connie, Eren, and Jean exchange uncomprehending glances. Jean's pleased to note that Eren looks as lost as he feels. Unlike Connie, Jean was enrolled in a few advanced courses when he was attending school, but he's since cut out in favor of studying for his GED. College is out of the question now without familial support. Remembering that makes Jean's throat tighten, and he stares down at the tabletop, navigating little pieces of rice under the edge of his plate. He was in the top ten of his graduating class before he had to drop out. He was gonna study business, was gonna room with Marco and join Kappa Omicron Rho. It's not like finance was his calling in life, but at least he'd had a plan; something to count on in the future that didn't involve squeezing a human being out of his sixteen-year-old body.

Connie might be academically sub-par, but the guy narrows in on emotion with unbelievably sharp instincts. Grinning, he leans across Jean to give Eren a conspiratorial wink. "Nerd inside jokes are a special kind of painful," he says.

"For real," says Eren. "Especially wherever Armin is concerned."

"You're just jealous you don't get to pore over four-hundred-page proletarian novels at your workplace," says Armin, flashing Jean a small smile. He glances back at Marco. "Hey, I don't know if you're busy right now, but do you want to go over notes together before the exam?"

"Yeah, that'd be great!" says Marco, then pauses. "Wait, no. I'm Jean's ride."

"Oh, I got 'im, don't worry," says Eren. "I think we're both going home to the same place, yeah?"

"Yeah," says Jean, feeling a little tug of excitement at the idea of sharing a small car cabin with Eren. The two of them haven't really talked since that day in the bedroom; Eren works long hours at—a hardware store or something, Jean guesses, or some sort of mill, because he always smells like sawdust and warehouse and musk. All man, that one. And was it just Jean, or was Armin's comment sort of pointed? As if Eren was more focused on his job than school at the moment? Jean's not that familiar with people who don't push education on kids like crack cocaine. If Eren is nonjudgmental about that kind of thing in addition to being outrageously hot, interesting, and willing to buy Jean Thai food, Jean's gonna marry him on the spot.

"Awesome, thanks," says Marco, giving Eren a grateful grin. "You want to come with us, Connie?"

"To talk about a four-hundred-page prostitutional novel? No effing thanks," says Connie. He gives the aviators on his head a little tweak so they drop back over his eyes, scooting his chair back and clapping Marco on the back. "Thanks for lunch, man. I got you next time. See you guys at baby class?"

"Yep," says Jean. "Bye."

"Bye, Arm," says Eren. "Call you tonight."

They part ways. Jean sits for a moment, watching Connie stroll off whistling in one direction with his hands clasped behind his neck, Marco and Armin climbing into Marco's old Nissan.

He feels suddenly wistful. They look so young sometimes, in ways that they never seemed before. Jean braces himself against the table and readies his knees to heft him to his feet—and finds himself rising gracefully, easily. Eren is supporting his elbow with one hand and his hip with the other. They pause with their faces a little too close together. Eren's cheeks shine faintly pink, and he grins.

"Let me help you carry that," he says.

"Thanks," says Jean. His lips tingle pleasantly as he smiles back.

*

"This is Levi." 

"Hi, Levi, it's Jean Kirschtein."

"Yeah, hi. What do you need?"

"I had a—a question. About the labor."

"Yeah?"

"When I—when it's time to, like—how should I, uh, like, uh—"

"Jean. What is your question?"

"Am—am I gonna poop on the baby?"

"...pardon me?"

"When I give birth. When I'm, you know, pushing. Am I going to poop on the baby? Because if, like, the very first impression I give to this baby on God's green earth is to shit all ov—stop laughing!"

"Sorry, I'm sorry. Okay. Yeah, that depends on how you're giving birth. Are you having a cesarean?"

"It depends on if I dilate far enough. My secondary opening is kind of—underdeveloped."

"Well, I'm not gonna lie to you. You might shit on your kid, yes, but think of it this way: all parents end up shitting on their children in some sense or another, so you might as w—now _you_ stop laughing. Look, Jean, the last thing the medical personnel are gonna care about is your bowel movements. They're gonna be focused on delivering a happy, healthy child, and that's all you should be worrying about, too. Okay?"

"Okay. Thanks, Levi."

"Yeah. Call me anytime, kid."

*

Reiner and Bertolt paid for the childbirth preparation classes. Jean doesn't need a professional to tell him how to breathe and push, but that professional happens to be a man named Erwin Smith, who is quite possibly the most attractive man Jean has ever seen outside of a GQ spread. He tells Eren this, and Eren insists on coming with him. He even carries Jean's pillows and blankets. They meet Connie and Marco at the community center at two in the afternoon, all four of them a little flushed with excitement. "He's that hot, huh?" Eren asks.

"Hotter," say Jean, Marco, and Connie in unison.

The childbirth center is actually the former lobby of an office building, so it's actually got a fancy fountain in it, which provides a sense of environment that Erwin has wholeheartedly embraced: he plays soft, ambient music and surrounds the floor space with potted plants and shallow gravel gardens, minimalist watercolors on the walls. Very zen and shit. Jean breathes in the scent of the subtle, woodsy incense as he spreads his blanket out as close as he can to Erwin's mat without actually being on top of him.

"Hmm," says Marco, eying Jean's midsection, "I don't think we're going to have to use any extra padding to simulate the baby anymore. You're getting pretty big, Jean."

"Thanks," Jean grunts as he tries to get settled. Marco and Eren both reach out to help him at the same time, then frown at each other, each settling on holding one elbow as they help Jean ease himself to the ground. Jean relaxes with a sigh of happiness once he's situated, lifting his sweater to stroke the huge, smooth swell of his stomach. He doesn't like to touch his belly when he's alone—it reminds him too strongly of his unmarried status—but in the company of his peers, he feels safe and normal and unselfconscious. He's got stretch marks like whoa, but so does his classmate Sasha, and she's about as unashamed as they come.

"Hello, everyone," Erwin greets as he emerges from his office, his bronze calves flexing gorgeously, and there's a sharp sucking noise beside Jean as Eren snorts in a huge breath of delight. Erwin gallantly ignores it. "How are you all doing today?"

There's a halfhearted murmur of replies. Sasha says, clearly, "Hungry."

"Good, because today we will be talking about nutrition." Then, to the lack of response: "Also, I brought pastries."

Cheering.

Jean eats bear claws and spaces out as Erwin lectures them on vitamins and hypnobirthing. Marco's lips move faintly with Erwin's as he commits the information to memory, and Eren strokes Jean's knuckles, his fingers hard and strong from manual labor. Soon a notepad appears from one of their pockets, and Marco is quickly scribbling notes when Eren reaches suddenly for the pen.

"Hey, I can do that," he whispers.

"I've got it, thanks," Marco whispers back, holding the notepad exaggeratedly out of reach.

"No," says Eren. "Seriously, man, you missed the whole part about oxycottons and endolphins—"

"I have it written down here, _correctly_ , as oxytocins and endorphins," says Marco, pointing at the paper so hard that the top joint of his finger bends back a little. "I've got it, Eren. But thanks for your concern."

"But I—"

"Thanks for your concern," Marco repeats pleasantly, in a voice like steel.

Jean glances back and forth between them, irritated to have been distracted from his Danish. Erwin, who actually had to stop speaking for a moment to let the side conversation peter out, smoothly resumes his discussion of pain management and birthing techniques. 

Slowly, Jean resumes eating, wondering if he could ever self-hypnotize himself into calling contractions "surges" or "sensations." He's not really into that New Age stuff, but if Jessica Alba endorses it, maybe it's something he could get behind. Or he could give birth in a bathtub like a woodland fairy. He considers his options as Erwin wraps up the first part of his lecture, noticing only belatedly that everyone is getting up and heading toward a table stacked with informational pamphlets. Jean tries to sit up, grunting. He can't get enough leverage.

"Guys," he says.

"Let me see those notes," Eren snaps, snatching them out of Marco's hand. Marco just sits there, stunned, as Eren clicks his tongue. "No, your handwriting is shit. I can't make sense of any of this. I'm going to borrow this and type it up, and next time maybe you can—"

"My notes are fine," says Marco, yanking them back. "Jean, who has been familiarized with my writing for _eleven_ years of our best-friendship, can read them no problem."

"Yeah, but what if his pregnancy coach wants to go over this with him? This chicken-scratch isn't going to—"

"I'll type them up myself, then! I'll type them up my frickity self!"

"Guys, please," Jean groans, levering himself up to his elbows before collapsing back onto his blanket.

"Frickity," Eren is laughing. "Oh my god, how old are you? It's okay to say no-no words, Marco!"

"I'm not going to curse around Jean's baby!" Marco yells.

"Holy fuck," Eren wheezes. "You're that type! Are you going to play it classical music? Are you going to teach it Spanish and Mandarin Chinese in the womb so it comes out with increased job security?"

"Maybe I will!"

"Help," whines Jean.

"I'll teach it Pig Latin," offers Eren, "you etentious-pray astard-bay."

"Et-gay ent-bay," says Marco.

"Oh dear me, such language!"

"You know, who the ick-fray are you, anyway?" Marco demands. "No one even knows you. You just crashed into our lives with your flower hat and your ugly shoes and expected everyone to adapt around you, when the truth is you have nothing to do with Jean. You're just someone's brother."

"I'm more than that!" Eren shouts.

"Yeah?" Marco challenges. "Yeah, who are you to Jean, Eren?"

"I'm—I _want_ to be his—"

"Oh my godddd, help himmm," Connie groans, shoving between them to seize Jean's hands and drag him upright.

Dizzied, Jean lets himself be lead away as Marco and Eren stare each other down as viciously as they can while still flushing with shame. He doesn't think he's ever seen Marco so angry, and Eren is a terror when he's mad, sharp and ruthless and smiling almost giddily—and even more striking when he's cowed. Marco really caught him off-guard. Eren is still struggling for words, his mouth working soundlessly, eyes slipping sideways to catch Jean's with helpless frustration. Jean holds his gaze as Connie walks him to the information table, considerately holding Jean's doughnut in his mouth.

The baby kicks for the first time. Jean clasps his hands to his belly, stunned, and falls to one knee as Marco and Eren rush toward him, gasping. 

_He wants to be my what?_


End file.
